A Coulter’s Christmas Proposal

by Lois Faye Dyer

  “No, that belongs to Zach and I think he wants to keep it.”

  Hazel eyes considered him for a moment. “You said ‘originals,’ plural. You found new pieces, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Enough for a gallery showing, provided we can interest the right gallery,” he confirmed.

  “So let me see if I have this right.” She lifted her hands to tick off conclusions. “You will allow me access to your mother’s…” She paused. “Exactly what do I get to look at?”

  “Family photos and some of Mom’s journals.”

  “She left journals?” Excitement spiked in her voice and lit her eyes.

  “She kept journals most of her life, from the time she was a little girl until the morning she died,” Eli told her.

  “That’s wonderful!” Amanda exclaimed, her delighted smile blinding. She drew a deep breath and went back to counting off items on her fingers. “So I can have access to Melanie’s journals and family photos. In return, all I have to do is ask my brother-in-law if he’ll consent to a showing of her artwork?”

  “And you’ll have to sign a contract stipulating that you won’t print anything about the family following her death.”

  Eli could almost see the swift calculations of her brain as she considered his caveat.

  “Done.” She held out her hand and Eli took it. Her palm and fingers were slim and soft, warm and female, enclosed in his.

  “You won’t be able to take the journals or photos from the ranch,” he warned her. He steeled himself against the urge to tug her closer. The feel of her skin beneath his fingers tempted him nearly beyond reason. Barely two feet separated her body from his and he couldn’t keep from wondering if the tender hollow at the base of her throat, framed by the collar of her blouse, was just as soft. Connected by their hands, he was swamped by the feminine, flowery scent she wore. With an effort, he yanked his thoughts back to the journals. “I’ll bring them to the studio and clear a space for you to go over them. I have to be present while you’re studying them, and you can’t wander around the ranch.”

  “You’re going to guard me while I’m on the Triple C?” A faint frown drew down her brows and anger sparked in her voice. “Are you afraid I’ll steal something?”

  “I’m being cautious. I don’t know you, beyond the bio information I read on the Artist magazine’s website. Until I know you well enough to decide if I can trust you, I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Hmm.” She glanced down at their clasped hands, apparently only just then realizing he still held her hand in his. She tugged and he released her. Could that be embarrassment in his eyes? “I suppose that’s reasonable. But if you treat me like a potential thief after we know each other better, I’m not going to stay silent and meekly let you get away with it,” she warned him firmly.

  “Fair enough.” He nodded in agreement, amused when she continued to frown at him, as if gauging the depth of his commitment.

  “Very well. That’s settled.” She rose and walked into the bathroom, returning a second later with a cell phone. “I’ll call Tom.” Her eyes glowed with suppressed excitement as she tapped in a number. “You have no idea how interested he’s going to be.” She paused. “Tom? This is Amanda. Yes, I’m still in Montana.” She listened for a moment before laughing. “Tell her Auntie Manda loves her, too.” Another pause. “I have some news I think you’ll find fascinating. I’ve just had a conversation with Eli Coulter. His family is interested in selling some of their mother’s sculptures.” She winced and held the phone away from her ear.

  Eli clearly heard the male voice, although he couldn’t make out the actual words.

  “I take it you’re interested?” Amanda spoke into the phone. “Very well. I’ll tell him. And I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  She hung up and laid the small red phone on the tabletop.

  “He’s in. He has a lot of questions—like how soon you’ll be ready, how many pieces will go on display and on sale, that sort of thing.” She waved one slim hand. “He’s very excited and wants to talk to you as soon as you’ve made any decisions about details.”

  “Good.” Eli nodded and stood to stare down at her, studying her face. “You knew he’d agree, didn’t you?”

  “I thought he would,” she admitted. “He’s a big fan of your mother’s work.”

  Eli wondered if he’d just been conned, but he couldn’t deny he was relieved that the gallery and auction piece of the plan had been achieved so easily. And convincing Amanda to sign a contract agreeing to disclose nothing in her book about life on the Triple C following his mother’s death was the best plan he could come up with to protect his family’s privacy. All in all, he still liked the bargain they’d struck. “I should be able to tell him more in a few days, after I’ve chosen the pieces we want to sell.”

  “Are there a lot to choose from?” Amanda asked. When he didn’t confirm or deny, curiosity filled her expression. “You might as well tell me. I’ll find out from Tom.”

  “Not today,” he told her calmly.

  “You really aren’t going to trust me until I prove myself, are you?” she shot back.

  “No, ma’am.” He looked at her. “I learned a long time ago it’s best to be careful.” He had a swift, sudden image of the swarm of reporters that had questioned, cajoled and then harassed him and his brothers after his mother died.

  “You’re an advocate of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?”

  “It’s not a bad policy,” he told her. “Especially if they’re reporters.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Coulter,” she said, narrowing her eyes over him. “Do you actually have any friends?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He smiled with amusement. “I surely do.”

  “And did you put all of them through this—” she waved a hand in frustration “—this test, or whatever you call it?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Then I suppose the only thing that should surprise me is that you have friends at all.”

  He smiled and headed for the door. Pulling it open, he looked back at her. Her slim figure was taut with annoyance. She looked cute as hell.

  “I should be ready to go to the studio around ten tomorrow morning, if you want to drive out and meet me at the house.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said tightly.

  He nodded and closed the door, striding down the hallway and the flight of stairs to reach his truck and head back to the Triple C.

  In Room 203, Amanda stood perfectly still for a long moment, frowning at the door panels.

  Annoyance at Eli’s blunt declaration that he didn’t trust her warred with elation that the Coulter family had consented to cooperate with her biography.

  And I can read Melanie’s journals, look at family photographs.

  To Amanda’s knowledge, this was the first time any of the Coulters, including their deceased father, Joseph, had granted access to any of Melanie Coulter’s personal possessions.

  She spun in a circle, delight at the huge breakthrough zinging through her veins. Then she caught up her cell phone and quickly tapped in a number.

  “Lindsey, I have the most fabulous news,” she said, her voice bubbling with excitement when her sister answered. “The Coulter family is going to give me exclusive access to Melanie Coulter’s journals and family photos.”

  “Wow! Congratulations,” Lindsey said with pleased surprise. “I thought her sons turned you down and practically tossed you off the ranch? How did you convince them to cooperate?”

  “Eli Coulter wants to auction off some of his mother’s sculptures, and you, brilliant sister of mine, happen to be married to the owner of the best art gallery in New York!”

  “Seriously?” Lindsey said. “Well, I always knew Tom was the best at everything,” she added with a laugh. “But I didn’t know about the Coulter sculptures. How marvelous is that?”

  “It’s more than I dared hope for.” Amanda laughed, unable to keep her delight contained. “Oh, Lindsey, I t
hink this may give me the personal touch I so badly wanted for the book.”

  “Congratulation, sis,” Lindsey said fondly. “I couldn’t be more pleased and happy for you.”

  “There is one small concern,” Amanda told her. “It’s apparent the Coulters don’t trust reporters or writers.”

  “But that’s not unusual, right? I thought not being trusted was something you’ve grown used to while reporting?”

  “Oh, it is,” Amanda agreed. “Of course it is. I wish Eli wasn’t so cynical about reporters, though.”

  “Really?” Lindsey said with obvious surprise. Then she made a small hum of understanding. “You’re interested in him.”

  “No, of course not,” Amanda denied instantly.

  “Yes, you are,” Lindsey said with conviction. “I’ve never heard that note in your voice before when you were talking about a less-than-friendly interview.”

  “What note?” Amanda asked defensively.

  “That wistful longing.” Lindsey laughed with delight. “Tell me about Eli—would I like him?”

  “Of course you’d like him,” Amanda answered quickly before she groaned aloud. “You tricked me. Stop that. My only interest in Eli is that he’s willing to let me see his mother’s journals and photos. And now that I think about it,” she went on, “I’m sure he’ll stop worrying once he gets to know me.”

  “Of course he will,” Lindsey said stoutly. “And if he doesn’t, you only have to be there long enough to finish your research. Then you can come home and get on with the actual writing of the book. Hang in there.”

  “Words to live by,” Amanda said with a laugh. “You’re right, of course.”

  After chatting a few more moments about their parents and the latest antics of Lindsey’s one-year-old daughter, Emma, Amanda said goodbye.

  She hoped Lindsey was right about Eli getting past his distrust. If not, the next few weeks might prove to be uncomfortable on a daily basis.

  Too bad he’s decided I can’t be trusted, she thought with a sigh, because he’s the most interesting man I’ve ever met.

  Determined to deal with the breath-stealing attraction, which apparently was one-sided, Amanda slipped into her pumps, caught up her purse and headed out for her lunch appointment.

  She would focus on the amazing piece of luck that allowed her access to Melanie Coulter’s journals and photos.

  She would not waste one moment wishing Eli considered her more than a means to auctioning Melanie’s artwork in New York.

  Chapter Five

  Amanda turned off the highway and drove beneath the iron arch of the Coulter Cattle Company sign just before 10:00 a.m. the next morning. A plume of dust rose behind her rented car as she drove down the gravel ranch road. The bridge rattled beneath her wheels as she crossed the creek before braking to a stop, parking just outside the ranch house fence.

  Before she could step out, the house door opened and Eli appeared. He walked toward her with a loose, easy stride that riveted her attention on his long legs. Faded jeans hugged his thighs and hips and were nearly white from wear in interesting places. A black T-shirt with a Spanish logo left his tanned arms bare, and his black cowboy boots were covered with dust.

  She was glad the dark lenses of her sunglasses hid her eyes as she rolled down the window to look up at him.

  “Good morning.” Her voice was throatier than normal but she refused to acknowledge his effect on her.

  “Morning,” he replied, bending slightly to look at her. The brim of his gray Stetson shaded his face and mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes. “We’ll drive down to the studio. Give me a minute and you can follow me.” If her appearance at the ranch had any effect on him, he certainly didn’t show it.

  She nodded. “All right.”

  He turned and strode to an older-model pickup. Moments later Amanda followed the truck as Eli drove past the barn.

  There was a lot of activity at the corral attached to the barn. Several people, both men and women, perched on the corral poles, and inside, dust rose from several horses that milled around a center post.

  Amanda wished she had time to stop and see what they were doing, but the truck ahead of her didn’t slow or pause, so she dutifully followed. Eli’s pickup followed the graveled lane away from the barn, passing a picturesque log cabin and continuing on until he slowed further before turning into a shady drive.

  She pulled her car alongside his truck, excitement shivering and tightening her nerves as she realized that the low building with its lawn sloping down to the creek bank must be where Melanie Coulter had worked.

  She pushed open her door, grabbed her laptop and purse, and left the car to join Eli at the back of his truck.

  The long muscles of his back flexed as he leaned into the truck bed and lifted out two medium-size boxes.

  “I haven’t been down here to set up a table for you yet,” he said as he led the way up the shallow steps and onto the porch. “But it won’t take more than a few minutes.” The unlocked door gave way under his hand and he pushed the door inward, stepping back to wave her ahead of him.

  She was vividly aware of him as she moved past him, and she cast a quick glance sideways. He was watching her and she caught her breath at the clear impatience mixed with a distinctly male interest in his green eyes. Then she looked away, determined to ignore the heightened tension between them as she crossed the threshold.

  The long room was quiet, almost hushed, and Amanda felt as if she were entering a museum. Her gaze lingered over the workbench, with tools hung on the wall above, before finding the huge rock fireplace that took up most of the far wall.

  She jumped as Eli brushed past her to set the two boxes he carried down on the workbench.

  “This should be enough space for you to get started.” He lifted a folding table from a rack halfway down the room and returned to the center. He unfolded the legs, locked them into place and set the table down before glancing up. “Come in,” he told her with a faint frown.

  She realized she’d been standing just inside the doorway, studying the room with intent fascination while purposely avoiding Eli’s gaze.

  “Sorry.” She walked forward as he collected the two boxes from the workbench and set them on the table, then turned back to snag an office chair and roll it to the table.

  “No problem.” He glanced around the room. “Why don’t you put your things down and I’ll give you the five-cent tour? Not that there’s much to see,” he added as she complied. “Dad built the studio for Mom right after they were married.” He waved a hand at the workbench that ran the length of one wall. “She did all her work here.” He moved forward, Amanda trailing after him. “The building is self-contained. She used the little kitchen for making coffee mostly.”

  Amanda hurried to keep up with his long strides as he walked the length of the long room.

  “The bathroom’s here….”

  Careful to leave distance between them, she peered past him, into a small but complete facility with a shower stall.

  “And this is a storage room….”

  Again, he held the door open and she looked past him to see a small room lined with shelving where packing boxes and bubble wrap sat side by side with neat stacks of office supplies. He stood close enough that she could smell his rugged, masculine scent. Focus, she warned herself.

  “She used to take naps on the sofa or sit there to draw designs.” He pointed to the floral blue-and-white sofa with a high back and fat, rolled arms that stood facing French doors, looking out on a deck and the creek beyond. “Not this sofa. The mice wrecked the old one and we replaced it.” He paused, hands on hips, and surveyed the space. “That’s about it.” He walked back to the table where she’d left her purse and laptop. “Until we get to know each other better, you’ll need to leave your purse and laptop case on the bench with me. You’ll find paper, pens and pencils in one of the boxes for notes.”

  Anger rose, swift and sure, quickly tamping down the attraction she had
been fighting. “I assume this is part of your ‘don’t trust reporters until you’ve tested them’ policy?”

  “That’s right.” His voice was brusque, but his green eyes were watchful, stormy with emotion.

  Amanda considered telling him exactly how outrageous she thought he was being but decided against it. She’d had to leave her purse and briefcase with security when interviewing prisoners for an article on art theft, but being subjected to those steps here was infuriating. However, in light of what he’d told her about his negative experience with reporters when he was a child, newly traumatized by his mother’s tragic death and his later interactions as an adult, she decided perhaps he had a right to distrust the press. “I’ll expect an apology in a week or two,” she told him firmly, her gaze holding his without flinching.

  He nodded briefly. “If things pan out, you’ll get one.” He pointed at the boxes. “One of the boxes has journals. The other contains a collection of family photos.”

  He opened the boxes, then turned to look at her, folding his arms across his chest.

  For a moment, Amanda simply stared back at him. He clearly expected her to say something but she had no idea what to reply. So she picked up her purse and laptop case, walked to the workbench to set them down, and turned on her heel to return to the table.

  “If it’s all right with you, I’ll begin.” She couldn’t keep the frosty annoyance from bleeding into her voice and couldn’t bring herself to care. If he didn’t like it, tough, she thought.

  His eyes darkened, and for a moment, Amanda thought he was going to say something important and every nerve in her body tightened. But then he shrugged and his expression was unreadable once more.

  “Fine by me.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchenette. “I’ll put some coffee on. It’s done when the machine beeps. Feel free to help yourself.”